


The Calling

by Dakoyone



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, F/M, The Calling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-06-19
Packaged: 2018-04-05 04:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4164993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dakoyone/pseuds/Dakoyone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"After a number of years, however, neither she nor Alistair were seen again." - Dragon Age: Awakenings - Epilogue</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Calling

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This would be the, er...prototype cathartic release angsty fic. Thing.
> 
> Edited 7/26/2014 (originally posted on fanfiction.net)

They made no mention to anyone of their sudden departure from Denerim, stealing away into the night like thieves as they navigated the lower tunnels and canals out of the city. They decided to travel along the northern edge of the Southron Hills and through The Hinterlands, staying off the Imperial Highway to avoid being recognized. Between the two of them, with his shield and heavy armor and her arsenal of healing and strengthening spells, they were nearly undefeatable as they engaged in skirmishes with the occasional groups of thieves and bandits.

"Just like old times, eh?" Alistair joked lightly before hissing as Neria laid the elfroot dressing onto his shoulder, right over the puncture wound where the arrow got him. "Except that this time we aren't racing to save the world from a big, ugly dragon," he said between clenched teeth.

Neria tore a strip of clean linen and dabbed the sweat from his brow before slathering a generous amount of ointment on the cut he received there. "No, no race to kill a dragon," she agreed, "just a race against time as we waste away from the inside out."

Alistair sighed at the resignation in her voice. He knew her pain, her fear. He accepted an early death as his fate, but Neria never really had a choice in the matter. She was forced to join the order, to take up an entire life of fighting dark, corrupted creatures in every waking moment and in sleep. She was never given the opportunity to enjoy true freedom, always shackled to the bonds of servitude and responsibility. And, oh, how he wished he could ease her grief for lost youth and now, more importantly, a full life. He wanted, more than anything, for her to live without worry or fear, but it simply wasn't to be.

They lived to fight and to die, and Alistair was determined to make the most of the little time they had left together.

"My love," with a tenderness that he only ever revealed to her, he took the small hand that was smoothing the creases of his brow and pressed a firm kiss against her palm.

He remembered the night he found her sitting upon a stone bench in their private gardens, watching the wind sway the limbs of oak and pine. She turned to look at him, her eyes bright with a deep sadness that tore at his heart. He approached her then, kneeling before her on the soft, damp earth, his very bones feeling the chill of the soil through the fabric of his trousers. His lips lifted in a small, brittle smile in contrast with the quivering frown she gave him, and he watched her eyelids flutter closed, silent tears sliding down her round cheeks, as he raised a hand to brush stray tendrils of hair behind a pointed ear.

"It is time then?" he asked.

A single nod was all she gave, not daring to open her eyes. If she looked at him then, she would fall apart, and she was barely holding herself together as it was. It was a flimsy barrier, however, raised feebly before the tumultuous waves of emotion threatening to consume her, one that instantly shattered like the thinnest glass when she felt Alistair's arms wrap around her diminutive body.

He drew her into his embrace, taking her pain and grief as his own as he held her trembling form, her sobs muffled against his tunic, the wetness of her tears soaking through to the skin on his chest. An anguished cry wrenched itself violently from her lungs, small fists clenching in the the folds of rich fabric at his waist. Another cry...and another. Her body shuddered more violently than it had before, but he only tightened his hold, his urge to shield and guard her more powerful than the agonizing pain of his own grief..

Grey Wardens were normally granted about thirty years to live, half of a normal lifespan. With magic the effect of the taint was unpredictable. In very rare cases, a mage may be powerful enough to nullify the taint within the body. In most cases, however, magic never stood a chance. The taint was drawn to the Fade magic, draining a spellcaster of both life and mana, quickening their Calling even more.

Neria only served as a Grey Warden for less than fifteen years.

As they sat mourning for things that would never be, he raised his face toward the heavens and, not for the first nor the last time, cursed the Maker's name.

Drawing back into the present, Alistair pressed Neria's palm against his stubbled cheek, and her stormy grey eyes flickered faintly. It was a weak light, the barest glimmer of hope, but it was enough for him...for now. She wasn't giving up. "It's not fair," she whispered.

Indeed, it wasn't. It wasn't fair that life found him the most wonderful person he would spend the rest of his life with without question, a person with a soul as bright as the sun and a heart as pure as the moon, only to rip her away from him within a single moment. They planned on traveling far, to the outer reaches of the world, of seeing all the sights and reveling in each other's company to the very bitter, inevitable end, and even that was now stolen from them.

Alistair's gaze hardened, and he resolved to make the most of what little time they had left together.

Very few in Denerim were aware of their missing King and Hero of Ferelden. He once confided in Teagan, ensuring that his uncle understood and prepared for an event like this. Alistair trusted him to take up immediate stewardship in Denerim until Connor, whom he appointed as his heir, came of age. The nobles would probably call a Landsmeet in protest against having a mage king, but Alistair watched his cousin grow up.

He observed as the boy developed his natural magical talent under Neria's stable guidance, and he knew that Connor had a good head for politicking. The boy was always interested in the old histories and possessed a healthy curiosity for the different government systems of the neighboring countries. He would make a fine King of Ferelden, much better than an abrasive and socially inept Grey Warden King anyway.

With this final reassurance for the kingdom he was leaving behind, Alistair tugged his beloved forward, ignoring the ache in his shoulder as he pressed her soft body against him, swallowing her gasp of surprise as he molded her lips against his. Neria soon overcame her silent shock and returned his affections with a passion that he answered eagerly. She ran her wonderfully familiar, calloused fingers across the exposed skin of his neck, drawing a deep growl from his throat as he angled her chin, drinking deeply the heady taste of her as he lowered her onto the grass, careful to keep from crushing her beneath his massive armor.

He rested his forehead against hers, her lashes fluttering against his brow, the taste of his lips warm and welcome against hers. "Neither the Maker nor the blighted Void will have you," he whispered softly but with such conviction that Neria couldn't help but feel an answering call of faith tugging at her heartstrings, hope rising from the burnt ashes of her fractured soul, "You are mine, and nothing will steal you away from me."

The small spark of life that he saw before suddenly blazed to life, turning the once stormy grey of her eyes into burning silverite, a sight of beauty of which there was no equal. She smiled then, rising to brush her lips tenderly across his, "I am yours."

But fate was cruel.

After nearly three days of marching and fighting, their journey was coming to an end. They were almost at the main gates of Orzammar, trudging their way through the deep snow toward the surface market when they suddenly sensed a group of darkspawn nearby. It seemed a strange occurrence since darkspawn were rarely seen on the surface long after the end of a Blight, but somehow, this close to the dwarven kingdom and on the last leg of their run, Alistair found it hardly surprising.

They soon found themselves locked in a battle with a hurlock emissary and two genlock archers. Alistair made quick work of the two lesser darkspawn, hacking away at head and limb with Duncan's sword and stunning them with his shield while Neria was set in a clash of mana and wills against the emissary. They felt the presence of a second wave well before hearing the whistling of arrows flying by their ears. Two more emissaries came with this group, one of which immediately began hissing a spell under its rancid breath.

It was sheer agony, the crushing weight of the emissary's power coupled with the mass of his armor as an invisible prison pressed down on him from all sides, but Alistair bore it as best he could as he gathered up his own will to dispel it. While he was incarcerated like this, the darkspawn were surely going to-

Neria's anguished scream reached his ears, and he roared in anger - a moment of clear, uninhibited thought allowing him to break free of the telekinetic bonds that held him. He turned too quickly, his senses shaken by the stress delivered on his body, his lunge unsteady but his strike true as he lopped off the head of the remaining archer before it could add a second arrow to the one already protruding from Neria's chest. With a final battle cry, Alistair turned the grip on his sword and threw his weight into it, flinging it far from himself and into the heart of the last emissary.

A whimper sounded from his left where Neria lay on her side, her hand curled around the shaft of the arrow protruding from her body. He fell to his knees, his legs no longer having the strength to bear his weight, and he crawled over to his love, the sight of all the blood pooling beneath her body leaving him shaken. Her breaths were labored as she struggled to draw in much needed air around the haze of pain. Alistair saw that she not only bore the arrow wound but also a large gash on her side and another along the inside of her arm.

He hesitated to touch, to feel for himself the warmth leaving her body. He raised his eyes to take in their surroundings and saw Orzammar's heavy stone doors just there beyond the bridge. They were so, _so_ close, but Neria...and all of her blood...

He felt a warm but quickly cooling palm against his stubbled cheek, and he turned quickly to see Neria smiling up at him. "Ali...s-stair," her barely there whisper hissed out between stuttered breaths, "...I...I lo-love you."

Unable to hold back the tears that had until that point only been threatening to fall, Alistair grasped her, clutching her body tightly, her ear pressed against his bloodied armored chest. His breathing was rash and ragged, hiccuping sobs wracking his body as he rocked back and forth, his trembling lips pressed against her rapidly cooling forehead. No words came. Grief lay like a shroud over his mind, blocking his voice, allowing only for his muted cries to escape between his clenched teeth. It wasn't _fair_!

"No...good-," Neria murmured, the sound of her voice, once light and lilting and now fading with each passing moment, "goodbyes. I...be wa-waiting. My...l-lo..."

He couldn't feel the bitter cold in his bones, not the harsh wind that blew against his face nor the stiffening of his limbs. He couldn't feel anything anymore. There was nothing, no purpose, no will.

She was gone.

* * *

 

The dwarves of Orzammar were no strangers to the sight of Grey Wardens walking among them. When Wardens came to answer their Calling, the dwarves saluted them as they passed, recognizing them as heroes going forth to fight their final and most glorious battle. It was an inspiring sight to behold, the streets lined with dwarves, their heads bowed in deep respect, and the low rumble of dwarven song told of the brave warriors of old triumphing over evil.

Alistair saw and heard none of it as his broad strides took him through the dwarven commons. For Alistair, only a few were able to bow their head in respect. Many saw him and quailed under the sheer amount of fury they felt radiating off of him. His bright blood-crusted gold armor reflected the lava falls that lit the caverns, making him appear more like a rage demon than a conquering Warden.

He stood before the guard stationed at the entrance to the Deep Roads. He said nothing. There was nothing to be said. The guard simply nodded and let him pass. Alistair reached behind him and grasped the hilt of his sword, the sound of an unsheathing blade echoing ominously against the stone walls, against the uneasy silence that permeated the kingdom at his presence. There was a fire in his eyes that would not be quenched, a void in his soul that would not be filled.

She was his first and his only love, and they stole her from him. He silently vowed to fight through death and beyond to reclaim his place by her side.


End file.
